


someone will remember us even in another time

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Calendar Girls (2003), Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: [Calendar Girls AU] Flowers of Holby are like the women of Holby. Every stage of their growth is more beautiful than the last. But the last phase is always the most glorious. Then, very quickly, they all go to seed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt [missparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker) received but had never seen the movie in question. I have seen the movie in question approximately...a lot of times. I love it. She let me have it. SO:  
>  _Possible Berena prompt, if you're still taking them: Calendar Girls AU! (Except obviously much gayer than the movie, lol)_
> 
> I dunno, man. Just gonna write AUs forever, I guess. Occasional dialogue taken from the movie. Also, as a note, WI stands for Women’s Institute.
> 
> Title from a poem by Sappho

The settee is uncomfortable.

Bernie fidgets nervously as Serena walks around the relative’s room, ranting about how uncomfortable it was. "We’re going to need another bloody relative’s room for the relatives injured on the settee in the relative’s room!" she explodes, and Bernie can only offer a tight smile.

They’re avoiding talking about the real problem, which is that Marcus is ill. Weakened immune system, septicemia, pneumonia. Words that Bernie didn’t know before, but is intimately familiar with now. Bernie’s only there because she’s still next of kin - their divorce isn’t final, she’s still his wife. It feels false to her to get sympathy from doctors and nurses when she doesn’t even feel like she really belongs to this tragedy.

Marcus insists that no one should be bothered, that he’d be feeling better any day now. Bernie knows he’s well enough to be discharged, but there will still be weekly doctor’s visits and treatments. He’ll lose his hair and his energy, and she wants to spare their friends from that, while she can, so she complies with his wishes, his only shuttle to and from the hospital.

So she’s here with Serena, her oldest friend, and they’re waiting on this unbearable bloody settee until Marcus is ready to be released.

 

✿✿✿

 

It seems unfair to Bernie that in the midst of all of this, Serena still insists they go to WI meetings. They never get more interesting, the insipidness of the talks growing by the minute. She usually meets Serena’s eyes halfway through a woman talking about the true importance of plum jam and they dissolve into fits of silent giggles, burying their faces from view, hiding from the judging stare of Marie.

And to add insult to injury, Serena signs them both up to enter cakes in the annual WI home and craft competition. Bernie doesn’t have time, what with ferrying Marcus to and from the hospital, so she stops by Marks and Spencers and buys a Victoria sponge, wraps it in paper and sticks it in a tin, satisfied that it looks home-baked.

Bernie wins, to Serena’s chagrin. Her store-bought, probably filled with additives and preservatives, lovely Victoria sponge wins the Morven Shreve trophy. Bernie dutifully heads to the dais, her eyes pleading Serena to find her some way out of this and Serena only covers her eyes with her hand and pretends she doesn’t know her.

"Not only does this cake earn the trophy, but I’m proud to say that this cake also wins the judge’s discretionary award." And before Bernie can say ‘boo,’ a sash is plopped over her head and Serena has probably pulled a muscle from avoiding eye contact.

Berenice Wolfe, hater of jams and baking and most things required of the WI, is asked to share any tips she may have. Serena peeks through her fingers, sees a flash of a devilish grin as Bernie finds some semblance of composure and says into the microphone, "Well, I basically stuck to my mother's advice about cake baking." She pauses, gets an encouraging nod from the presenter, and continues, "Which is line the bowl with butter. Always use a warm spoon. And if it's a special event, get it at Marks & Spencer's."

This statement is greeted with silence, with gasps of horror and shock. And Serena decides to save Bernie, and starts to laugh, hearty and loud, which seems to shake the women out of their stupor and they all start in, as though they were in on the joke all along.

  

✿✿✿

 

"I thought I might give a talk to the WI," Marcus says one night as they’re driving home from his latest treatment. He’s bald now, weaker than he was before, bundled up. Bernie feels sorry for him, hopes he knows she’s being a good friend to him and nothing more.

"Oh? What about? Have you developed a new talent for pudding?" She signals her turn to his street and he rattles out a chuckle as she pulls in front of his house.

"About gardening, of course." He pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to her. "I wrote this the other day, while that poison dripped through me. Read it, tell Marie I’ll knock the socks off the Holby WI."

Bernie takes the paper, bids Marcus a good night, and heads to her house. She changes into comfortable clothes, wraps herself in a blanket and pulls out his speech.

 _Flowers of Holby are like the women of Holby. Every stage of their growth is more beautiful than the last. But the last phase...is always the most glorious. Then, very quickly, they all go to seed._ Bernie barks a laugh at that. He always was a cheeky beggar.

_Which makes it ironic my favorite flower isn't even indigenous to the British Isles, let alone Holby. I don't think there's anything on this planet that more trumpets life than the sunflower. For me, that's because of the reason behind its name. Not because it looks like the sun but because it follows the sun. During the course of the day, the head tracks the journey of the sun across the sky. A satellite dish for sunshine. Wherever light is, no matter how weak, these flowers will find it. And that's such an admirable thing. And such a lesson in life._

Her eyes are wet, and it’s hard to imagine gruff Marcus having these words in him. But he won her over with his words, all those years ago. He just didn’t often revisit that well, and Bernie wonders if he could’ve kept her invested longer if he had.

She calls Serena, her port in the storm, her fast friend. She reads the speech to Serena and they both cry a bit. "Most glorious, eh?" Serena asks and Bernie has to stop herself from telling Serena that she’s always been glorious.

 

✿✿✿

 

Serena holds Bernie’s hand at Marcus’s funeral. They stand close and Bernie can’t believe the man she was married to is gone. She grips Serena’s fingers tightly, worried that if she lets go, she might not be able to stand.

Serena, for her part, feels an emptiness that she can only fill with action. She hates feeling helpless, and if there’s anything that leaves her feeling truly stuck, it’s cancer. Afterwards, after the funeral and after the reception at Bernie’s, they’re sat on her couch, thighs touching, hands touching. Bernie has become more tactile through all of this, always leaning into Serena at WI meetings, smiling secret smiles meant only for the two of them.

"What if we get a new settee? For the relative’s room. Something to commemorate Marcus?" Serena’s mind has been flitting about all day, trying to find something to make her feel better in the wake of this tragedy. "Some sort of fundraiser, maybe?"

Bernie looks at Serena as though she’d gone crazy. "A settee?" she asks and Serena grabs Bernie’s hand.

"Yes, a settee. We had to sit on that horrible thing day in and day out, and bruised our rumps. I’d sooner sit on the floor than sit on that bloody sofa again!" Serena’s found a mission now, believes in it, believes in its importance. Bernie has her share of hare-brained schemes, but she’s always more than willing to go along with Serena when Serena gets an idea into her head; she’s hard to resist, when she’s got fire in her voice and a glint in her eye.

"What kind of calendar will get us anywhere near enough to buy a nice sofa?" Bernie asks, thinking of the traditional WI calendars, all baked goods and disappointing watercolors. It’d be a crime to ask more than five quid for one of those.

"Well, now that you mention it, I was in the mechanic’s the other day and he had quite the calendar hanging up…" Serena trails off, letting Bernie fill in the blanks.

"And who would be the models? Us? As if anyone in their right mind would pay for goodie shots of you and me in our all-together." Bernie is inclined to be outraged but it isn’t wholly a ridiculous idea, not as ridiculous as some of Serena’s other schemes - like that vodka tasting night.

"I’d pay to see you with nothing but a cake covering your bits," Serena chuckles, and the comment hangs between them, like so many others. Bernie isn’t quite sure what to do with it. She doesn’t want to acknowledge it in case Serena’s only joking, but _what if she’s not_ , and the idea glimmers with possibility.

 

✿✿✿

 

Serena recruits women, quietly. She knows a couple of kindred spirits, as well as the women more likely to take their tops off. They’ve got nine yeses, and Serena feels like this might actually work. She allows herself to feel hopeful.

The next meeting of the Holby WI is awkward. They rush through Jerusalem, Marie hurrying the organist. Bernie and Serena exchange glances, thighs touching, keeping a secret together.

Marie moves to the podium at the front, pretends to smooth the wrinkles from her perfectly ironed skirt. "Right. Has anyone any activities planned we might want to seek approval for at National Conference? It's always wise. We wouldn't want to do anything without National Committee approval, not with Holby being such a proud WI, with an unblemished reputation, where it would take only one small act by a few rogue individuals to ruin a reputation that we've spent all these years…"

"All right. Look, we're planning a calendar for Marcus, everyone," Bernie says and she feels Serena grasp her hand, lending her strength.

"Yeah, it's to raise money to buy something for the relatives' room in Holby General," she chimes in and Bernie gives their joined hands a squeeze.

"And?" Marie prompts, her face pinched and stern.

"And with us on it," Serena says, braver than she feels. "One for each month."

"And?" Marie isn’t letting them off easily, and Bernie wishes the subject would just drop. She and Serena sit, staring at Marie blankly, making her say the words. "Naked!" The word comes out of Marie’s mouth like a bark.

"Naked?" It’s a voice from behind them, Bernie doesn’t know who.

"Not naked. Nude." Serena’s standing now, addressing the group, taking control from Marie just by the sheer charisma of her presence.

"What's the difference?" Marie challenges.

"Art."This comes from one of their brave volunteers and Bernie feels herself sag with gratefulness. They aren’t alone in this.

"And seeing Marie's raised the issue," Serena says, barreling forward, "we're a good few months short! And no matter what you might think of the idea, Marie, you're looking at January!" Her courage fills Bernie who, not prone to public displays of any sort, stands tall and says with conviction, "February!"

What follows is some sort of bizarre reenactment of Spartacus, with women popping up left and right to claim months, all buzzing with anticipation about something new in their tired old WI. It’s a victory, and they leave the meeting with all twelve months accounted for.

 

✿✿✿

 

Bernie and Serena celebrate their triumph. They open a bottle of wine and sit on Bernie’s back porch, enjoying the stillness of the evening. Crickets chirp quietly and were Bernie inclined towards poetic thoughts, she might have said that they were cheering them on.

Serena lifts a wine glass in a toast. "To Marcus," she says, and Bernie pauses before clinking her glass against Serena’s.

"To us," she says, looking meaningfully into Serena’s eyes. "It’s not really for Marcus, not anymore. It’s about doing something, yes. But it’s not for him. He may have started it, but we’re doing it now." She misses Marcus, of course, but it doesn’t feel right to attribute this movement to his memory. This is bigger than him, even if all it will get them in the end is a calendar, a reminder of just how many wrinkles cover their bodies, and a spanking new settee in the hospital.

Serena nods her acquiescence and taps their glasses together again before taking a deep sip. Bernie shifts slightly, and then they’re sitting close. Too close. Their bodies are flush and Bernie isn’t quite sure where to put her arms. Serena glances at her, then flicks her eyes to Bernie’s mouth. She reaches up and gently touches Bernie’s lips with her thumb, dragging the lower lip down slightly. Bernie watches Serena, feels it all happen, feels like her mouth might just drop open. Serena’s hand is holding Bernie’s chin, her fingers light and delicate and then she leans forward and kisses Bernie, soft and sweet.

Bernie pulls back, her eyes nervous and her body tense. They haven’t done this before. They’re close, everyone in Holby knows it. When Serena knocked on the door of her new neighbor’s home fifteen years ago, Bernie had felt like the luckiest woman alive. How many people move next door to their soulmate. Indeed, there were rumors that Serena is what had come between Marcus and Bernie, rumors to which Serena only responded to with a sniff.

"I...Hm…" is all Bernie can come up with, and Serena is looking at her with eyes full of care and tenderness and Bernie can’t take it. She stands, suddenly, and knocks the wine bottle over. Serena jumps into action, rescuing the bottle before too much has spilled. "It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay," Bernie says inanely. "We’re outside. It’s fine."

"It’s red, it’ll stain the wood," Serena answers sharply and lets herself inside to find a rag, leaving Bernie holding a half-full glass of wine and looking bewildered.

"Let me," Bernie says, when Serena returns, taking the damp towel from her hands and getting on her hands and knees to blot the porch. Serena sits back down on the bench, tucks her legs up underneath her, makes herself small while she watches Bernie at work.

"I’m sorry," Bernie says after a bit, not looking up. "Not about...About spilling the wine. Not about the other thing."

And then Serena laughs. "Oh, you daft mare. Come up here and kiss me again."

And Bernie does, because somehow it’s easy now. Serena is her best friend, and when their lips meet, it feels just like answering that door all those years ago.

  

✿✿✿

 

Finding a photographer is harder than Bernie would have imagined, but it’s not as if they can really just say "Wanted: Photographer to Shoot Women of a Certain Age for a Nude WI Calendar," even though that’s the exact wording Serena suggested over breakfast.

They meet with art college photographer, then, all people with portfolios brimming with black and white photos and close-ups of flowers. It’s uncomfortable, when the subject matter is brought up. Bernie feels the leers of the male photographers like a layer of dirt and is anxious to go home to her shower. She reaches for Serena’s hand under the table, but settles for her knee when Serena clasps her hands over the most recent portfolio, all business and professionalism. "Not quite what we’re looking for, thank you," she says, then closes up the photographs and shoves them back and the pimply man who spares Bernie one more ogle before making his retreat.

"I can’t believe it," Serena says, leaning back in the chair, one hand to her forehead, the other resting on top of Bernie’s, still on Serena’s knee. “We’ll need a bath later to get the stink of that last one off of us.” Bernie colors at the insinuation. They haven’t done anything except kiss, a few times. It’s been lovely and new and revelatory, and she could happily kiss Serena forever.

Before Serena can spit out a witty rejoinder at the flush on Bernie’s cheeks, another photographer sits in front of them. "Lawrence," he says, an awkward air about him. He reaches out his hand to shake both Bernie and Serena’s, and lays out his photographs. Tasteful, well-composed portraits. Bernie and Serena look at each other with a smile.

"Let’s tell you more about the project, then," Serena says, leaning forwards once more, her face eager and open. Lawrence blushes worse than Bernie at the mention of the calendar, but soldiers bravely on.

"My first thought, then, is to do it like a classic WI calendar. You know, all your jams, cakes, sewing and all that. You know, everything you'd expect. Except for one tiny thing. The person doing it is naked." He sketches out a brief idea, a woman leaning over a tray of tarts with the top two bedecked with a strawberry, alluding to a much more lurid image.

"It’s perfect," Bernie breathes and Serena turns to her, surprised. This is the most enthused Bernie has ever sounded about the project, and that alone is enough to prompt Serena to make Lawrence an offer on the spot. 

 

✿✿✿

 

The day of the calendar shoot dawns. They won’t start till evening, but the nerves of doing this illicit, taboo thing keeps Bernie antsy all day. Then the text comes out two hours before their set to start that says "Bras off!" This was Lawrence’s idea, to keep them free of lines left from clothing. Bernie takes off her bra, steps out of her underwear, and puts on a fluffy bathrobe. Then a knock comes to her door and she can only hope it’s Serena, and not some door to door salesman.

It is Serena, and she eyes the bathrobe with a completely welcome leer. "All ready to go, are we?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow, and shuts the door behind her. "Want to help me get mine off?"

Bernie can’t even laugh for nervousness, because she wants nothing more than to assist Serena. Somehow her feet move forward and her hands find the hem of Serena’s top. With a glance for reassurance, she lifts up the garment, pulls it over Serena’s head, ruffling Serena’s short hair. The shirt is dropped on the ground, and Bernie gulps, visibly and audibly, at the bare skin before her. Serena’s wearing black bra, delicately edged in lace. Her eyebrow lifts again and she says, "I bought a matching set." Bernie manages a weak smile, reaching for the clasp on Serena’s trousers. She fumbles, and Serena’s hands come to her aide, unloosing the button, and Serena pushes them down, and, true to her word, stands before Bernie in nothing but her lacy, black underthings.

 _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_ echoes in Bernie’s head but she can’t quite make her mouth form the words. She was never particularly gifted at saying what was on her mind. But Serena’s at least three steps ahead of her, unclasping her bra, then going for the tie on Bernie’s bathrobe. "Come on, Ms. Wolfe. No need to be a shrinking violet." The flower pun, Bernie supposes, is intentional, and the weak humor puts her a little more at ease.

It’s strange, how adept at all of this Serena is, how unquestioning she is about it all. Bernie would be lying if she said she’d never looked sideways at a woman, or if she hadn’t kissed a girl at a college party, the taste of beer and sweat and femininity sticking with her long after the girl’s name had flown from her memory. Serena’s never mentioned any past encounters with women, except for some woman in Stepney. She’s less stymied than Bernie, more willing to jump in and deal with the consequences later. Bernie thinks they’d still be mopping up wine spills if Serena had never taken the initiative.

Bernie’s robe falls to the ground, her body bare before Serena’s appreciative gaze. "Did you just put on your fancy lingerie to come over to my house," she asks, her voice almost unrecognizable in its low throatiness.

"Maybe," Serena says primly and leans in to kiss Bernie wetly, square on the mouth. "Wasn’t a long walk." They’re still in Bernie’s front hallway, both naked and old and wrinkly and Bernie’s glad that the only neighbor she’d worry about being spied on by is standing in front of her.

"Let’s go upstairs," she suggests, pulling Serena towards the staircase and Serena allows herself to be led to the bedroom, lets Bernie push her back onto the bed, unmade and messy, but it doesn’t bother either of them.

They are awkward and new to this. No one would mistake them for being experienced in this new realm. They have the basics down, because they’ve both touched themselves, they brought their own bodies to orgasm, but putting all that practice to use is all different angles and different preferences, and they stutter and stop a few times before Serena finally grabs Bernie’s hand and puts it directly where she wants it, guiding her fingers to a rhythm that makes her eyes flutter back in her head. It gets easier, Serena yells out as she comes, rutting against Bernie’s hand.

Again, Serena is the braver one as she licks her way to Bernie’s navel, then trails her tongue down, leaving a wet trail that Bernie frantically tracks with her eyes. This is different, this is new, and this isn’t unwelcome in the least. Her head falls back on the pillows as Serena sucks Bernie’s clit gently into her mouth, the warmth of it all making Bernie go crazy. And then Serena licks her and Bernie’s hands fist in the sheets and she can barely stand it. Her British reserve keeps her quiet, but her straining body speaks louder than scream that might come from her mouth.

They lie next to each other, afterwards, Bernie’s chest still heaving. Serena’s lying on her stomach, one hand resting on Bernie’s abdomen, the her head resting on her other hand. She looks angelic, sleepy, and sylphish. Bernie rolls onto her side, dislodging Serena’s hand and touches her forehead to Serena’s before kissing her lightly. "Thanks," she says, and closes her eyes. They have time, before their photos get taken. She could do with a nap. She feels Serena curl onto her side, feels Serena’s body slide against her own, feels Serena’s breath against her cheek. Even if the calendar gets them nowhere, it got them this. 

 

✿✿✿

 

It’s hard to keep their hands off each other as they walk back over to Serena’s, where they’ve agreed to have all the photos taken. She’s got a large basement, she’s got a piano, she’s got the best kitchen equipment. No one was fighting to be homebase for this operation. Lawrence is there already, was told he could let himself in to begin the staging. The first image he drew for them, the cakes and tarts, is fully realized before them. A homey scene, just waiting for the first woman to situate herself behind the dessert tower. Bernie whistles, impressed. “It’s lovely, Lawrence. Really. The other ladies will love it.”

They draw cards, Ace to Queen, to decide order. Bernie picks four, and Serena has the Queen, going last, at the end of it all. All eyes turn to Celia, who’s drawn the Ace, her face torn between disappointment and relief.

There’s a bit of a scuffle, when it’s time to begin, because some of the ladies don’t want a man photographing them. All twelve women are dressed in robes, milling around, offering critiques he didn’t ask for as he sets the lights up, Celia mimicking the pose she’ll be in. “You look beautiful,” he offers, and her face relaxes. "Now. One of you has to click the shutter. Just press this, here. And don’t touch anything." He leaves the room, closes the double doors behind him.

Celia disrobes and Serena crows, "Lawrence, we’re going to need considerably bigger buns!" The room dissolves into giggles, the tension easing.

Bernie turns her back, picks up the shutter clicker and when she’s faced Celia again and the buns have moved. "Weren’t the buns flat?" she asks.

"Don’t touch the buns!" Lawrence’s voice comes, muffled, through the door.

"I like them like this. They cover more." Celia’s face has tensed again, a crease lining her forehead.

"No, don't touch the composition!" Lawrence is emphatic, though he can’t see a thing.

"But, Lawrence, were the top buns flat?" Bernie knows she’s right, but wants the expert to back her up.

"They're flat!" he yells back.

"Yeah, but flat for us or flat for her?" Jessie asks and Serena bites her tongue at the inanity of the question, when Lawrence bursts into the room, his frustration apparent. There’s a flurry of activity as they all move to cover Celia from Lawrence’s eyes.

"Don't touch the buns. Please. Sorry." His hand is over his eyes and he backs out of the room again, shutting the doors once more.

"Bad girl," Serena whispers to Bernie.

"Bun toucher," Bernie ripostes and enjoys the light in Serena’s face and the giddy giggle that comes up from her belly.

Celia, unrobed once more, positions herself behind the tarts. Lawrence, clearly peeping through the keyhole at this juncture, tries his best to offer direction, though Bernie doesn’t see how he can do it when all he’s got is a small sliver of the picture. "She's got to look relaxed!"

"I am bloody relaxed," Celia says through gritted teeth.

"And she's gotta smile."

"I am smiling!" This is said through what Bernie can only describe as a grimace.

"No, not too much. I want it enigmatic." Bernie thinks this is a ludicrous suggestion, and wonders what sort of direction she’ll receive once she’s in front of the camera.

"She looks like she's seen somebody she knows in the distance," Serena offers, rather unhelpfully, but she smiles at Bernie as if she knows it’s all a little bit silly.

"Left side up a little. Your right side down a little. And the middle section sort of…" Lawrence’s voice sounds frustrated and Bernie is relieved when Celia finally caves and yells, "For God's sake, get bloody Botticelli in here."

"Lawrence. Get in here," Serena echoes, and the doors open so quickly it’s a wonder they stay on their hinges. Bernie watches Lawrence move Celia, gently guiding her to the right position, his eyes never going lower than her neck, his touch gentle and professional.

Then he moves behind the camera, looks up at Celia, whose face still resembles a gargoyle on the side of Notre Dame. "Celia. You look beautiful. Really." As her face relaxes once more into a genuine smile, Lawrence clicks the shutter.

 _And we’re off_ , Bernie thinks. 

 

✿✿✿

 

Bernie’s pose is elegant, she thinks. She’s in front of the piano, her hands delicately placed on the ivory keys, her face turned, looking over her shoulder, light coming in from the window above. A sunflower is placed across the top of the piano, the one constant in every photo. She tries not to think of her bottom, flattened and splayed on the piano bench. She knows she’s younger than some of these women, knows she’s still got the body of a runner, though a runner gone slightly to seed. She knows Serena doesn’t seem to mind any part of her anatomy, a fact which is reiterated when Serena comes up to the piano, under the pretense of fussing with Bernie’s hair, and whispers "The last stage is the most glorious" before patting the same rear end that had caused Bernie consternation moments before.

The rest of the photographs go quickly and smoothly. They all sit in front of Jessie, singing Jerusalem loudly and off-key, enjoying the sacrilege of it all. She pretends to conduct them, and Lawrence captures a shot of her covering her mouth in glee, laughter sparkling in her eyes.

Then it’s time for Serena’s and Bernie is a little breathless with anticipation. She fakes modesty, but when all the ladies begin to chant "Off! Off! Off!" her robe falls to the floor as easily as Bernie’s had hours earlier. She’s behind an apple press, her face rosy and happy and Bernie thinks she’s in love with Serena.

Serena tosses her head back with a throaty laugh and pretends to push on the crank. Bernie wonders if she can have a print for herself.

Lawrence is relieved, they can all tell, when it’s over. Jessie hadn’t made things easier, affecting her teacher’s voice from another life, reminding Lawrence she’d been his junior school teacher. The beet red hadn’t faded from his cheeks for many minutes after that. Bernie felt bad for him - this can’t have been an easy task, but he’s faced up to it admirably and she will be forever grateful. Serena offers him a kiss on the cheek as she hands him his payment, and he blushes once more. "I’ll have the prints to you soon," he promises before practically running from Serena’s home.

  

✿✿✿

 

"So that’s done, then" Serena says when they’ve cleaned everything up. They’re still in their robes, sitting together on the sofa, Serena’s legs in Bernie’s lap. "Feels strange - all that build-up and anticipation, and it’s...over."

"We’ve still got to print the calendars and sell them and have that press conference to drum up business. It feels like we’ve just begun," Bernie offers, gently kneading the soles of Serena’s feet, pushing her thumbs into the soft skin.

"I meant the hard part’s done with. The rest of it’s easy enough. Talk to people, chuck a calendar at their heads, I could do that in my sleep." Her eyes are drooping and soon enough, Bernie thinks, Serena could prove her claim.

"Let’s get to bed," she says, lifting Serena’s feet and placing them on the floor. "Up you get."

Serena squints at her. "Inviting yourself over, are you?"

Bernie balks and stutters out, "Uh - I meant - you’re falling asleep down here - Um - We - I-," fumbling for words until Serena takes pity on her with a warm laugh.

"Of course you’re staying. Come on, you goose." Bernie feels a bit of warmth at that - since the first time Serena heard her laugh, she’d affectionately referred to Bernie as a goose, an insult from anyone else, but an endearment from Serena.

Serena’s bed is pristine. Bernie wonders at the fact that she so openly defies the WI, because she is the picture of feminine perfection in most aspects of her homelife. They turn down the duvet, shed their robes, and find each other in the darkened room.

Before, it was exciting and new and frantic. This time, it’s slow and familiar. They know each other so well. Bernie remembers the rhythm, feels Serena respond. Their bodies are serpentine, sliding through the sheets, moving against each other, fluid and languid. Before, they had somewhere to be. Now, they have time. They explore, they learn. They meet in open mouthed kisses, their tongues lapping, teeth pulling gently at lips. It feels like a movie to Bernie, it feels perfect and surreal and like it’s happening to someone else, because she almost can’t believe she’s lucky enough that it’s happening to her. 

 

✿✿✿

 

The calendar is printed, all in black and white except for the sunflower in each photo, bright and cheery and yellow. Bernie thinks it’s perfect. She flips through the proof, stopping at Serena’s picture, the laughter frozen on her face for eternity. It’s beautiful.

Then Serena comes in, looking nothing like the Serena of the calendar, her mouth drawn and serious. "We’ve two problems, my dear," she says, her voice soft. "We have to find someone to fund this calendar. The printing costs alone - we might be able to afford a throw pillow once we’ve paid it all off. And Marie."

"What’s Marie done now?" Bernie asks, knowing it’s going to be something irritating and idiotic, that will over-complicate a process which has, until now, been mostly smooth and easy.

"She’s going to the National Conference. Trying to get Madame President to put the kibosh on this whole thing, trying to stop us from affiliating the calendar with the WI! What do you think - can we produce the calendar without saying it’s from the WI?"

"If it's not the Women's Institute, it's just a load of middle-aged women mysteriously standing naked behind fruitcakes," Bernie says and Serena laughs.

"Fair enough. Let me think on this and we’ll talk later." She kisses Bernie, once on the cheek, once on the mouth, and leaves, her perfume lingering in the air, Bernie breathing it in deeply.

Almost as soon as Serena’s left, there’s a knock at the door. Bernie opens it to see Marie, standing awkwardly with flowers. She was always taught to be polite, so steps aside to let Marie in.

"These are for you," she says, thrusting the bouquet at Bernie, who takes them. They stand there, in the front hall, and Bernie thinks how it was just a short time ago that she and Serena stood in these exact positions, naked as they day they were born.

"I do know how difficult things must be for you at the moment," Marie says, finally. "How you must be feeling."

Bernie can’t imagine that she actually does.

"Do you think Marcus would have approved of this, Bernie? Really?" Bernie opens her mouth to tell Marie just what Marcus would have thought, to tell Marie that she and Marcus would have been divorced by this time if he were still alive, and that she never needed his approval for anything, but then snaps her mouth shut to let Marie continue her obviously rehearsed speech. "I know that he was a good man, a decent man. The WI is about doing good -"

"I think we have to ask ourselves what does more good," Bernie interrupts, "knowing slightly more about broccoli one week than we did the last or providing some comfort for someone in the worst hours of their life? Because that's what it's like, Marie. And, no, I don't think you do know how I feel, and I think you’ve no earthly idea what Marcus would or would not want." Bernie doesn’t share her grief with many people, but losing Marcus was losing someone who had known her in a way most people didn’t. Divorce or no, he still mattered a great deal.

Marie doesn’t stay much longer after that, only to offer Bernie some pat advice about dropping a penny in with the water for her flowers, so they’ll last longer.

 

✿✿✿

 

Serena is pulling Bernie along the empty hallway. "We’ll be late and who knows what poison Marie’s already spread around," she hisses. Bernie can’t quite believe they’ve driven themselves to the National Conference for the WI, but Serena has an idea in her head and they’re going to talk to Madam Chairwoman herself on behalf of the Holby WI.

They head into an anteroom, where they’re greeted by a woman with a clipboard. "It’s Serena Campbell and Bernie Wolfe from Holby to see the Chairwoman, please," Serena says, projecting confidence.

"Are you official delegates?" The woman consults her clipboard before looking back at them.

"Yes," Serena answers, without thinking. "From Holby."

"And you’re here to do an open spot?" Bernie and Serena exchange glances and Bernie shrugs, prompting Serena to nod. "Yes, we are."

They’re ushered out onto a stage, with the Chairwoman seated in front of them, delegates behind her. It’s all very intimidating and Bernie knows that Serena’s going to make her speak first. She walks towards the Chairwoman and smiles a shaky smile. "Madame Chairwoman, I’m Bernie, from Holby WI -"

"Please address the conference," the Chairwoman says, and indicates that Bernie should turn around. And when she does, she loses her breath. They are in front of an auditorium filled with women who love jam and Jerusalem and she can’t quite form sentences. She walks to the podium, a green light flicking on as she leans into the microphone.

"We...I...we’re from Holby, and we want to, uh, we want to do a calendar," she mumbles. The light flicks to yellow and Bernie thinks that must mean she’s running out of time. "We want to buy a settee...for the hospital in Holby and...well...and…" The light flicks red and she turns to look at Serena, eyes wide and sad. Serena gets the look in her eye that means she’s about to make a big pronouncement, reputation be damned. She nudges Bernie out of the way and steps to the podium, but the microphone’s gone dead.

"Right," Serena says, half to herself, and steps around the podium. "Look. I’m not a baker. I don’t care about home decorating or making jams. I don’t like singing Jerusalem once a month, and there seems very little to keep me in the WI." The room is silent and Bernie thinks they’ll be escorted out by police. "But we began this calendar and it made me care about it all again. It started with a man we cared about deeply, who passed away from that shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody disease that cancer is. Now it’s something more. And we want to raise money so it all feels less meaningless. And for that, I’m prepared to take my clothes off for this bloody calendar. With or without council approval."

The silence is profound, and then, from somewhere in the back, applause starts. And it fills the room. Bernie reaches for Serena’s hand. She’s always grabbing Serena’s hand, always grounding herself with the support and love of her best friend. Serena never seems to mind, and grips Bernie’s fingers tightly, holding their joined hands to her chest as she beams.

In the end, Madam Chairwoman leaves it to Marie to decide, says it’s a local issue as they’re only raising a bit of money and it’s unlikely to go any further than Holby. Bernie and Serena look at Marie with pleading eyes, and she relents with a graceless, "Oh, sod it. Go on, then."

They can hardly contain their glee.

 

✿✿✿

 

Serena’s called all the local news outlets for this calendar, to drum up interest and press. Bernie, telling Serena that if they’re doing a press conference, she’s not doing any of the talking, can only hope at least three journalists show up. Who would be interested in this?

They walk to the hotel they’ve reserved for the conference, walk into the room where tables have been set up. And there’s one lone journalist, an old man with a pen behind his ear and a well-worn pad of paper on his lap. Serena sinks down to the floor and puts her head in her hands. "All that work," she moans. "All that work and one sodding news reporter. This was just another one of my crazy schemes that didn’t work, and Marie was right. And the worst part is that I took off my clothes and no one was interested!"

"Well," Bernie answers gamely, "I was interested." This earns her a watery smile, and she joins Serena on the floor, patting her shoulder awkwardly. It’s hard to know where to go from here. The door opens and Serena looks up hopefully, but it’s just a porter.

"Are you here for the WI thing?" the porter asks, and both Serena and Bernie snap to attention. "We were overflowing - had to move it to the ballroom."

They stand, shakily, looking at each other in disbelief. "The - the ballroom?" Bernie asks. This is scarier than the WI National Conference. For one, these people will all have seen her playing the piano naked, so imagining the reporters in the nude will hardly calm her nerves.

They walk to the ballroom, open the door tentatively, and are greeted with flashbulbs and the dull roar of a room filled to capacity. "Bernie! Serena! You’re late," Jessie calls, beckoning them up to the dais. It feels surreal, reporters yelling questions, their photographs lining the walls. "It’s February," one reporter calls out and Bernie’s face turns a bright red. Serena laughs, loud and long. They did it.

  

✿✿✿

 

The calendar sells out. Quickly. Reporters seem to have filled every vacant room in Holby. They’re always finding Bernie when she’s at the market, they bother Serena at work, there’s no peace from the endless stream of questions. How many times can she say, "We only wanted to buy a settee"? Serena jokes that now they’ll have to spring for leather, and maybe a matching ottoman.

The real surprise, though, is what happens a few weeks later. Serena comes banging into Bernie’s house, breathless from evading reporters, and stops when she sees Bernie poring over a table covered with envelopes and letters and notes. "It’s happened to them," Bernie says. "It’s happened to them just like it’s happened to me. They've all lost someone." She holds out a letter to Serena, who takes it.

 _...And your photo made me smile for the first time in months. Now I smile whenever I see the calendar. Thank you, girls, for your bravery and beauty_.

_...It reminded me so of Eileen. You seemed to have the same spirit she had. I know she would have howled with laughter at your photographs. Thank you again. Looking forward to the next._

There are letters for every woman, all twelve of them. It is at once terrible and comforting, that there are this many people out there who understand what it feels like to lose someone in that way, Bernie thinks. They’re going to buy more than a settee. This calendar is going to do something real. It fills Bernie up, right up to the top, and she is brimming over with feeling. How strange - she’d thought no one would care and then it turns out the whole world was looking at them.

 

✿✿✿

 

The hubbub doesn’t die down as soon as Bernie would like. It’s hard to steal away for quiet moments with Serena, but they find the time. It’s early morning coffee that turns into a lazy morning spent in bed. It’s late night glasses of wine becoming nights spent curled into each other. The press don’t seem to know, the women of the WI don’t seem to care, and Bernie just finds herself feeling content.

One morning she wakes to Serena’s fingers running down her spine, counting every bone she feels. She turns over, and Serena smiles, her eyes still tired, but her mouth wide and happy. Bernie leans in to kiss her, enjoys the awkwardness of kissing those grinning lips, the feeling of Serena’s teeth and tongue as she responds.

They roll over, Serena on top, straddling Bernie. It seems so long ago that they first fumbled their way through the night. Serena bends down, dragging her breasts against Bernie’s naked skin. She slides her hands up along Bernie’s clavicle, across her shoulders, down her arms, and joins their hands, rolling her hips slightly.

Bernie leverages herself up on her elbows and kisses Serena again, long and sweet and slow. There’s a hint of the wine they shared last night, there’s the taste of morning breath, and there’s _Serena_ , that ineffable quality that Bernie thinks she’ll never tire of.

Serena lets Bernie’s hands free, and Bernie quickly tangles her fingers into Serena’s short hair, weaving her fingers in the brunette strands, pulling her in, holding her close. They kiss for what feels like a beautiful eternity. Serena’s hand fits in between their bodies, and she gently inserts her fingers, slowly, one at a time, and Bernie gasps into Serena’s mouth.

They roll back onto their sides, facing each other, and Bernie’s hand moves to Serena’s hip, to her thighs, gently teasing the coarse hair before mirroring Serena’s movements. They watch each other, tease each other, leave each other wanting. When they have the space to go slow, when the morning feels like a frozen pocket of time meant just for them, they cherish it. Serena crooks a finger, and kisses Bernie’s jaw as Bernie’s eyes flutter closed. She makes a trail to Bernie’s ear, gently nipping at her earlobe before ghosting back along her cheeks, to her tip of her nose, and finally, her mouth. Bernie, for her part, is using her other hand to toy with Serena’s lovely breasts. Age has taken its toll on them both, but neither feels particularly self conscious about it anymore. As their mouths separate, Bernie places an open mouthed kiss to Serena’s neck, leaving a sloppy wet mark, and Serena laughs. Bernie loves the feeling of Serena’s joy when her hand is inside her.

They have all morning and they luxuriate in it. They shower, they eat breakfast in bed, crumbs going unnoticed. They are with each other, that’s what matters. Miles away, a brand new settee is being moved into Holby General, coppery brown and leather. And along with it, an armchair and a coffee table and an ottoman and a bright plaque that says "In Memory of Marcus Dunn and in Celebration of the Women of Holby"

**Author's Note:**

> Boy, who knows.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: someone will remember us even in another time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389354) by [Kayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayryn/pseuds/Kayryn)




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